Anne Bronte

Anne Bronte

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Anne Brontë (17 January 1820 – 28 May 1849) was an English novelist and poet, the youngest member of the Brontë literary family.
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The Captive Dove

Poor restless dove,
I pity thee;
And when I hear thy plaintive moan,
I mourn for thy captivity,
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Gloomily the Clouds

Gloomily the clouds are sailingO'er the dimly moonlit sky;
Dolefully the wind is wailing;
Not another sound is nigh;
Only I can hear it
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While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye With scenes and pleasures of its own
Then I may cherish at my breast An infant's form beloved and fair,
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Domestic Peace

Why should such gloomy silence reign,
And why is all the house so drear,
When neither danger, sickness, pain,
Nor death, nor want, have entered here
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What though the Sun had left my sky;
To save me from
The blessed Moon arose on high,
And shone serenely there
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O, let me be alone a while,
No human form is nigh
And may I sing and muse aloud,
No mortal ear is by
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Vanitas Vanitatum Omnia Vanitas

In all we do, and hear, and see,
Is restless Toil and Vanity
While yet the rolling earth abides,
Men come and go like ocean tides;
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I have gone backward in the work, The labour has not sped,
Drowsy and dark my spirit lies, Heavy and dull as lead
How can I rouse my sinking soul From such a lethargy
How can I break these iron chains, And set my spirit free...
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Verses to a Child

1 O raise those eyes to me
And smile again so joyously,
And fear not, love; it was not
Nor grief that drew these tears from me;
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Lines Written at Thorp Green

That summer sun, whose genial
Now cheers my drooping spirit
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern
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Oh they have robbed me of the hope

Oh, they have robbed me of the
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that
My soul delights to hear
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The Bluebell

A fine and subtle spirit
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling
With more or less of power
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I hoped that with the brave and strong

I hoped, that with the brave and strong,
My portioned task might lie;
To toil amid the busy throng,
With purpose pure and high
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How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays
While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays
That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies;
And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winte...
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Oppressed with sin and woe,
A burdened heart I bear,
Opposed by many a mighty foe:
But I will not despair
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The Students Serenade

I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the
Yet my weary soul opprest;
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